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time.
it was on nights like these when the glimmering light of the sun, cascading gently across my cheeks, reminded me of the gold in his eyes.
it had been seventeen years, two months and nine days yet there were still nights where i found myself pondering over the very memory of him. sometimes i only drew his face in my mind. other times i remembered the delicate words that he spoke, the heartwarming things that he did for me.
sometimes i thought of what he wrote.
i remember him writting endlessly throughout the night.
about what?
that, i did not know.
there was only one time in my life that he allowed me to read a piece of his writting. it was a simple poem, describing japan in its flourishing cherry blossom season.
i was enamoured by the way he articulated such common words that it was as though he spoke of a person.
perhaps that was what he wanted.
he was majoring in literature at shanghai university. i never knew what he wanted to do with such a degree. he never really told me.
he would speak of his passion for writting under the luminescent stars, saying how he wanted to open the hearts and minds of his readers. i told him that books were dead. no one read these days.
this tragic generation had chosen to turn their hearts to the wretched likings of others, giving themselves away in vain for so called happiness and fame.
no one had any spare time to deepen themselves into a book, to fully understand the profound language embedded onto the worn out sheets.
back then it was 1963.
books do not exist now. they are left to rot on the shelves in independent bookstores, not being picked up by any individuals.
i could tell that it broke his heart. he poured all his love and passion into his writting. so much so, that he would not use any mechanical devices to write.
rather, he would use a ink pen with a obsidian feather. back then, he was a compassionate and soft man.
times have changed.
We are old.
we are old and he is no longer the same. he is hard and he is angry. he yells and he breaks. he compains about the bitter hearts of selfish humans, who have no empathy within them.
he no longer writes. rather, he sits for seven hours and watches television. pointless shows that are only a waste of precious time.
he stills treats me like a man, but he is no longer gentle and kind. he does not hold my hand in the midst of my sadness, to ask me about my troubles.
the only time he smiles is once a year. during the cherry blossom season. he says it reminds him of us, when we were young and beautiful.
perhaps once a year, he thinks of the old me.
perhaps he yearns.
but i ponder over him every night. in order to fill the emptiness in my bitter heart that aches for him.
- sakura.
THE END
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Author's note: i might release the poem he wrote but i'm really bad at poetry.
